


Chase you across the skies

by crayyyonn



Series: Freefall [1]
Category: GOT7, 拜託了冰箱 | Please Take Care of My Fridge
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weitao may be falling just a little too fast. It's not necessarily a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase you across the skies

Jackson doesn’t ring the doorbell when he arrives, not anymore.

Weitao never hears it anyway, always intensely concentrating on whatever new recipe he’s trying out this week. _Only a bit, ge, okay? I can’t afford to wreck this diet I’m on_ , Jackson will say, even though he always ends up eating most of it. His smile wrinkles his eyes and scrunches his nose and all Weitao can do is nod and try not fall a little more each time.

He mostly fails.

It’s not possible for anyone to not love Jackson, he reasons with himself, especially on nights when sleep proves elusive. He’s warm and lively and real and _good_ , so good he glows golden, so much so that Weitao can’t bear to look at him sometimes. When he’d first met him, he thought it was just for the cameras, never once considering that a person can be so dazzling outside of the cast of too bright lights and artfully applied makeup. But even barefoot and dressed in a ratty t-shirt and too large pants, with a patchy face and greasy hair, Jackson is—Jackson is like the sun.

“If I’m the sun then you’re the moon, ge.”

He looks up, surprised yet not to see Jackson standing at the kitchen island. Did he say that out loud? Jackson is peeling the plastic cover off a fresh tub of ice cream, single serve strawberries and cream. Weitao’s Beijing fridge has never been so well-stocked with sweets before meeting Jackson, even when he'd been living in the city, so much so that his own mother had commented on it. She thinks there’s a girl. Weitao doesn’t intend on bursting her bubble.

He takes the spoon dangling in front of him. “The moon? How so?”

A strand of blond falls over Jackson’s eyes when he leans over to dig into the ice cream, and Weitao’s fingers itch to push it back, see if it really feels as soft as it looks.

“Well, you’re always there, whether or not I can see you. Always just a phone call away. Steady and reliable. Like the moon.”

“You do know the moon is a symbol for women, right?”

It’s not like he’s actually taking issue with it, he just likes to ruffle Jackson’s feathers a bit. See him discomfited and flustered as he tries to explain, elaborate, going in circles. He thinks it’s cute. And right on cue, Jackson’s cheeks puff up.

“That’s not what I meant! I think you’re super manly, ge, a real man’s man. Really!”

He nods emphatically with each word, brow furrowed. Weitao wants to laugh, wants to tell him that he needs to change his habit of thinking other people will surely be convinced as long as he really believes in something, wants to tug him into his arms and hide him away from judging eyes and wagging tongues.

Instead, he scoops up the ice cream, savors the cold slide of sweetness down his throat. It’s been awhile since he’s had some. A week, exactly, since they’d stood in this exact spot, going through the same exact motions.

“I mean it.” Jackson’s eyes are earnest as they peer into his, and Weitao nods.

“I believe you.”

He smiles a little when Jackson sighs in relief, expression clearing up immediately. They finish up the ice cream in silence, leaning against the kitchen island. A streak of late afternoon sun warms up the marble top stretching between them, glinting off the set of newly-cut keys carelessly tossed on top.

“What time do you have to go?” he asks.

It’s routine, by now. They film the show, Jackson comes over, they eat ice cream, Jackson leaves. The cardboard tub goes into the trash, the spoons into the sink for washing later. They’re plastic but it’s all right, he’ll add them to the growing pile in the cutlery drawer and find a use for them. Eventually. Once he moves back from Seoul. 

He turns when Jackson doesn’t answer. “Jiaer?”

He hasn’t moved from the other side of the island where Weitao left him but he’s looking down, shifting from foot to foot, lips pressed tight together. He rubs a finger over the counter top. It leaves a clean trail in the light layer of dust.

“I… have a few days off,” is what he says by way of explanation. Weitao isn't sure he understands.

“Okay?”

“I…” Jackson looks up at Weitao, blinks, looks away again. “I want to taste it. _Niga hamyeon good._  Will you make it for me?”

Ah. The dish he’d come up with while they were filming the latest episode. It’s nothing special really; there’s nothing fancy that can be made from the ingredients that had been in Jackson’s fridge. If he’s honest, other than the initial stab of disappointment, he’s actually secretly glad Jackson didn’t choose him.

So he tells him, “It’s just ramyeon, nothing special,” even though what he really wants to say is _you’ve just had ice cream_ , brain already whirring as it calculates the calories and the time they’ll have to invest to burn them off but he’s neglected to take into consideration how stubborn Jackson can be when he gets something into his head. Straightforward boy, they've taken to calling him on the show, but he’s really more persistent than anything else.

And so it’s no surprise that Weitao ends up taking out pots and saucepans, noodles and beef and kimchi and cheese. Ordinary ingredients for an ordinary meal. He gets the water boiling, slices up the hunk of raw beef, cooks the noodles, cuts the kimchi. By the time the noodles are ready to be slid into the strainer, Jackson has sidled up next to him, watching his every move.

“Lele ge put that into cold water. Are you going to? I can do it if you’re going to.”

Weitao nods, handing him the bowl, watching as he carefully fills it with water, then ice. He turns back to the beef he’s grilling, adds a drizzle of teriyaki sauce. He’s cheating, since there hasn’t been teriyaki sauce in Jackson’s fridge, but there are no cameras rolling anyway so he finds he doesn’t care. Besides, it’ll taste better than what he’d originally planned.

Once the meat is done, he starts on the béchamel sauce. At Jackson’s questioning sound, he tells him, “Bay leaves. They’ll give more flavor to the sauce.”

“I don’t remember Huang laoshi doing that.”

“That’s because you didn’t have any in your fridge.”

He sets Jackson to grating the cheese as he cooks the flour in sizzling butter, sending the mouthwatering smell of fried dough wafting through his apartment. He pours in the milk, whisking the mixture quickly with a dash of salt and pepper, then adds the cheese, two big handfuls plus a little extra, because, well. Jackson does love his cheese.

It bubbles merrily, and once everything is melted down and smooth, Weitao plates the noodles, drowns it in sauce, places the slices of beef on top. A sprig of parsley as a finishing touch, a quick wipe around the edges of the plate, and then he’s done. Discreetly, he checks his watch. Just under fifteen minutes. _Yes_.

He gets Jackson to sit at the dining table, then sets the noodles and a small plate of kimchi in front of him. Ramyeon and kimchi should always go together, he’s learned during his stint in Korea. He’s guessing Jackson’s adopted that particular culinary quirk too.

He snorts when Jackson takes out his phone to snap a picture of the food, the sound of the shutter loud in the stillness of the afternoon.

“Photo before food, Jackson? Really?”

In reply, Jackson just shrugs and murmurs, “Thanks for the food.”

He’s as silent as he’s quick about eating, polishing off half the plate in no time before even thinking of offering Weitao some. Weitao shakes his head, gesturing for him to eat up. He’s tasted the sauce earlier while making it, so he already knows what the dish will taste like in its entirety.

Still, he asks, “How is it?”

Jackson nods. “Good,” he says around a mouthful of noodles. “You made it, so... really good.”

Faced with those eye crinkles and scrunched up nose, Weitao really can’t help the way his heart swells. “See, you should have chosen me,” he jokes, only to have Jackson shake his head, and it deflates. He resists the urge to rub at his chest. “No?”

“No,” Jackson says. There’s an odd note in his voice that sounds rather like resolve. He puts his fork down, movements careful and deliberate. “I don’t want to share this with anyone.”

He turns then, looks him in the eye.

“Because if it’s you, ge…”

Weitao doesn’t dare breathe. “If it’s me, what?” he asks in a whisper, but he already knows.

Jackson tastes like beef and cheese and parsley, but also sunshine and honey. He’s warm and sweet, the way he hums into the kiss, the way he shudders and goes pliant when Weitao lifts a careful hand to his neck, sifting fingers through his hair. It's ridiculously soft. Weitao pulls back and Jackson sighs a little, lists forward in an attempt to chase, eyes half lidded and mouth wet. Backlit by the light streaming in from the balcony, he glows golden.

“Ge,” he says, before he leans in again.

This time, Weitao lets himself fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Ge: Older brother  
> Laoshi: Teacher
> 
> I made up the _niga hamyeon good_. While that was the name of Weitao's proposed dish, I have no idea what he intended to do. 
> 
> Also if you don't get this pairing, just watch the show. Seriously. Weitao already confessed and practically proposed?! *cries a river for this ship*


End file.
